


Not a Catholic Thing

by Sapphy



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bratting, Canon Disabled Character, Dom/sub, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Gen, Hand Feeding, Heavy BDSM, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, M/M, Matt subs for Foggy when Foggy isn't looking, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Kink, Pining, Power Play, Relationship Negotiation, Reluctant Dom, Sub Matt, Subdrop, Subspace, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5076970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt's been subbing for Foggy for years. It's just that he never actually got round to telling Foggy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Catholic Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings that didn't fit in the tags: Matt has essentially been involving Foggy in scenes without Foggy's permission. It's all light and pretty innocent and Matt doesn't really understand what he's doing, but it's still something some of you might find icky. Matt has also been putting himself into subspace without warning people and without any kind of safety precautions. Basically Matt is very bad at BDSM.
> 
> Also Matt may actually have some kind of attatchment disorder.

It’s three weeks after the arrest of Wilson Fisk, three of the longest weeks of Matt’s life, that Foggy comes to his office as they’re finishing up for the day, and says simply, “I’m ready. Tell me.”

And Matt does. He tells him about Stick, and about being abandoned, about hearing the pain of a city and being unable to help, about the sick-sweet feeling of his fist connecting with flesh, about existing in a strange no-man’s land between disabled and meta-human, about the days when he hates himself with such intensity it terrifies him. Tells Foggy everything that he is, all but the one secret he knows Foggy doesn’t want to know, lays it all bare for the most important person in his life to accept or reject.

It’s terrifying. It’s liberating. It feels like confession ought to and never does. And Foggy, because he’s Foggy, listens, truly listens, and when Matt has finished he pulls him into a tight hug and just holds him for long glorious blissful moment. It’s the best moment of Matt’s life so far, and he can’t imagine anything in the future that could top it. (Or he can, often has, but he can’t imagine them ever being real.)

He feels good and clean and light, but there’s still something more he needs. But he realised a long time ago that it wasn’t something Foggy wanted, so he keeps quiet and allows himself the great luxury of just being there in the moment with Foggy’s strong arms and familiar smell.

 

* * *

 

 

They go out drinking after, because spending time together is easier right now if with alcohol to act as a buffer.

Foggy orders cheap shots, the kind that taste so bad Matt can’t help but wince when he drinks them, and they pass the evening with Foggy laughing at the faces Matt pulls.

It’s warm and companionable and only a little forced. It’s good.

They leave leaning heavily on one another, Foggy because he needs the support to keep from toppling over, and Matt because it’s been so long since he had an excuse to touch Foggy, feel the soft warm heat of him.

They go back to Foggy’s apartment, because it’s nearer, and Foggy manages to find Matt a throw and a cushion for the sofa and put some leftover spaghetti putanesca in the microwave before he passes out.

Matt carries him to bed (no one here to see so it doesn’t matter if it isn’t something a blind lawyer should be able to do) and removes his socks and shoes and, after a moment’s hesitation, pants, and tucks him in.

He goes back to the sofa, and sits and eats Foggy’s putanesca, and makes himself drink water to counter tomorrow’s inevitable hangover, and then thinks about going to sleep.

He lies on the sofa for a long time, thinking about sleep but not getting any, and he thinks about Foggy, so deeply asleep that there’s no chance that he’ll wake up first tomorrow, even though he always wakes up earlier than Matt normally, and he takes his blanket and cushion and goes and curls up on the floor beside Foggy’s bed.

It calms something inside him, knowing he’s there to keep watch, but there’s also a deep sense of rightness to being here, lower than Foggy, waiting in case he should need anything, like a faithful dog. He lets out a sigh of bone deep contentment and drifts off to sleep fantasising about Foggy reaching down to stroke his hair and tell him he’s being good.

In the morning, he’s woken by Foggy’s foot gently nudging the side of his face, and it’s only the pain of his hangover that stops him from leaning over to press a sleepy kiss to it.

“Dude, what happened?” Foggy asks bemused, staring down at him. He’s sitting up, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed. Matt ruthlessly pushes down the urge to prostrate himself that he always gets when Foggy is looking down on him.

‘This isn’t normal’, Matt’s brain informs him helpfully, and there’s a moment of awkward silence while he tries to come up with an explanation that Foggy will accept before he blurts out “I hate you couch.”

(That’s a downright lie, the couch is real leather, old and worn enough to be butter soft, and Matt has fantasised more than once about spreading Foggy out on it and making him come, and Foggy making him lick the leather clean afterwards).

“’Shoulda just come and crashed with me,” Foggy says, patting the mattress. “Plenty of room in here.”

Matt goes hotcold with conflicting emotion, a warm rush of pleasure at the idea that Foggy trusts him enough to have him that close, even after everything Matt told him yesterday, and a cold slimy feeling somewhere between shame and horror at the fact that Foggy thinks Matt would ever get into his bed uninvited. But then Foggy operates on a whole different set of rules to Matt, ones Matt’s never fully understood, so maybe Foggy doesn’t realise that getting into his bed uninvited would be Bad. Matt doesn’t deserve it, hasn’t earned or been given the right, and so he would never…

“Alright, there’s no need to pull that face,” Foggy says, shaking his head. “Maybe I should replace the sofa…”

“No!” Matt says, a little too quickly. “I mean, no, its fine. This is a very comfy carpet.” He stretches luxuriously to emphasis the point, and Foggy’s breath hitches slightly. Foggy doesn’t want him the way Matt wishes he does, but it’s still always nice to be admired, and so he smiles. “I like sleeping here. You can’t go anywhere while I’m asleep.”

“You mean you like being able to trip me when I go to the bathroom in the night,” Foggy mutters. “I swear, sometimes being friends with you is like owning a cat.”

Matt is damn proud of himself that he manages to keep his smile open and platonic and non-creepy.

 

* * *

 

 

“Wow, you really do hate this sofa, don’t you?!” Foggy asks, looking down at where Matt has settled himself at Foggy’s feet.

It’s a week since they talked, and Matt is forgoing patrol for a night to spend a night watching movies with Foggy, or rather, listening to Foggy narrate movies, which he’s convinced is infinitely better than actually seeing them could ever be.

They’ve ordered Vietnamese, and Matt likes it best when Foggy lets him get the food, likes the feeling of providing for Foggy, but this was good too, because he could tell Foggy to choose for him. Foggy choosing his food makes his stomach feel like he’s swallowed a load of butterflies, makes him want to do ridiculous things like sit at Foggy’s feet instead of on the sofa like a real person.

Matt shakes his head in response to Foggy’s question. He likes the sofa, it’s a nice sofa, he’s glad Foggy has somewhere so comfy to sit. He’d just rather be on the floor. It feels right, in the deep dark parts of his soul, quiets the bits of him that are never quiet, to be sitting at Foggy’s feet.

“Weirdo,” Foggy says, with a mixture of concern and affection that warms Matt’s heart. “At least accept a cushion if you’re going to stay down there.”

Matt considers it, decides that’s okay, won’t ruin his pleasant calm, and it’s worth it for the smile he can hear in Foggy’s voice when he nods. He will never understand what he did to deserve Foggy in his life, but he says prayers of thanks for it every night.

He wants to kneel, back straight and hands clasped, but it would worry Foggy, and even he recognises it wouldn’t be comfy long term. He settles for leaning back against the sofa, one leg bent, the other stretched out. It looks relaxed enough that Foggy hopefully won’t question it again.

After a few minutes he closes his eyes, an old reflex that doesn’t nothing to dull his awareness of the room around him, and allows himself to really relax, filtering out everything that isn’t Foggy’s heartbeat and Foggy’s scent and the sound of Foggy’s voice as he narrates the film.

He doesn’t start when Foggy puts a hand on his hair, but only because he’s allowed himself to sink so deep that he’s incapable of not accepting anything and everything Foggy chooses to give him.

Foggy goes silent, smells slightly anxious, so Matt hums, tilts his head towards Foggy to let him know it’s okay, and Foggy understands, just like he always does, and begins to stroke Matt’s hair, gentle and soothing and lovely. Matt’s too light and happy, too much Foggy’s right now to question whether he’s earned this, whether he should allow it. Foggy wants to give it to him, and right now that’s all that matters. He’s take a knife between the ribs if Foggy needed him too, but this is much more pleasant.

After a moment, Foggy goes back to narrating the film, and Matt allows himself to just _be_. If Foggy needs him, he’ll say.

 

* * *

 

 

Matt’s used now to little old ladies turning up at the office with plates of food for them all. There’s something about him and Karen than makes people want to feed them, and every cook who looks at Foggy seems to know instantly that they’ve finally found the palette that can do justice to their food, so they only actually buy lunch about twice a week, mostly subsisting on the proceeds of their good works.

This time it’s Mrs Patel, whose son had been arrested mostly for being the wrong colour in the wrong place at the wrong time. It hadn’t been a difficult case, but Mrs Patel seems to be convinced that they’re miracle workers, and turns up two days after the case with a box of samosas, plastic tubs of chicken biriyani and a dish of halva.

Foggy, because he has a terrible sweet tooth and his mother isn’t around to tell him off for it, goes straight for the halva, before Karen’s even had a chance to find them cutlery, scooping some up with his fingers and pressing it into a little ball before he eats it, making happy appreciative noises as he sucks his fingers clean that Matt is just knows he’s going to be thinking about at the worst moments for the rest of the day.

“Oh my god, Matt, this is so good, you have to try it!”

And then Foggy’s fingers are right there, in front of Matt’s face, holding a ball of halva out too him, the air heavy with the scents of carrot and cardamom. Foggy is hand-feeding him. He’s… he doesn’t know what he thinks about that, except that he’s blushing for it and it’s only the concerted force of his will that’s keeping his cock from sitting up and _begging_.

He doesn’t usually get off on… on the little things he does when Foggy isn’t paying attention, all the little reminders of his place that he allows himself to have. It’s not sexual, it’s just what’s right and good and proper. This though, Foggy feeding him like a _pet_ …

If he takes the halva, he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to resist licking Foggy’s fingers.

“What’s the matter buddy, it not smell good?”

It smells amazing, and Foggy smells even better, and Foggy wants him to take it. That’s the thought that lets him be good, lets him take the sweet without biting or licking do doing anything else inappropriate. Foggy wants him to take it, in as non-creepy a way as possible, and it isn’t an order (fuck he doesn’t need to be thinking about Foggy giving him orders right now, not when he’s trying desperately to not get hard) but it might as well be.

“Amazing, right?” Foggy asks, eagerly.

I can taste the oil from your fingers on it, Matt doesn’t say. “Yeah,” he says. “Amazing,” and he hopes he doesn’t look as lovestruck as he feels.

 

* * *

 

 

“Guess who’s brought presents,” Foggy calls, the door creaking in the way it only does when Foggy opens it with his hip.

“Santa Claus,” Karen says, a smile evident in his voice.

Matt stands up and comes to lean against the doorjamb of his office, smiling at both of them.

“Doesn’t sound like Santa,” he says, mock thoughtfully. “Not fat enough.”

“I will be soon if Mrs Patel has anything to do with it,” Foggy says with a grin. “And this is way better than Santa, he only gives you stuff small enough to fit in a stocking.”

At the convent, it had been one toy, usually a matchbox car, and a tangerine. Matt doesn’t say that that. It’s the sort of thing that makes Foggy sad.

“What wonderous gifts do you have for us then, oh Foggy Claus?” he asks, grinning at the happiness he can smell on both of them. Karen is rarely happy these days, so it’s always a treat to hear her smile.

“Well, for M’lady, I have… slippers!”

Foggy holds out a bag with a flourish, and Karen makes appropriately exciting noises as she opens it, and then bursts into peals of laughter.

“Oh my god, Foggy, where did you even find these?!”

“An extremely enterprising and somewhat weird souvenir stand I passed yesterday,” Foggy says, sounding please. “Try them on!”

Karen never wears shoes in the office unless they have a client, so she can slip them on over her tights (thin ones, the sort that feel like silk but aren’t, though they’ve been washed too many times to smell what colour they are anymore) and burst into another peal of delighted laughter. “Oh Matt, I wish you could see these, they’re the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen! They’re shaped like Iron Man’s face, and you put your foot into there the mouth slit thing should be!”

“I feel like Tony Stark would probably approve,” Foggy says happily. “Matt’s turn, though I warn you in advance, your present is kind of lame compared to Karen’s amazing foot fetish slippers.”

Matt laughs, taking the bag Foggy pressed into his hand and feeling inside it. It contains fabric, gloriously soft brushed cotton, with small buttons that tell him it’s a shirt of some kind. Clothes. Foggy bought him clothes. Foggy… Foggy is as good as telling Matt what to wear and he can’t…

“It’s soft,” he chokes out, aware he sounds about five minutes away from crying.

“Are you okay Matt?” Karen asks, sounding worried.

God, he must look worse than he sounds, and he doesn’t want to ruin the happy mood they’d been it, and he’s not sad, not at all, just overwhelmed, because Foggy bought him clothes and he doesn’t know how to process it.

“He’s fine,” Foggy says, with quiet self assurance. “He always gets a bit weird when people buy him things, I think it’s a Catholic thing.”

“He didn’t get weird when I got him that book last week,” Karen says, sounding a little offended.

Because you’re not Foggy, Matt doesn’t say, and you weren’t trying to dress me. Oh God…

“Well maybe I’m just better at picking out presents,” Foggy says, sounding smug and superior in that way he has that makes Matt’s knees weak with happiness and longing.

“I really enjoyed the book Karen,” Matt says, forcing his voice into something approximating normality. “What’s the occasion, Fog?”

“Oh, there isn’t one. I saw those slippers yesterday and new Karen had to have some, since she refuses to wear sensible non-painful shoes to work. And then I was getting some stuff for me this morning, since I’ve literally run out of pants that don’t have some kind of horrible stains on them, and I felt how soft that was and I knew you had to have it. Plus, I’ve never actually seen you wear plaid, and I think you’ll look like an adorable miniature lumberjack.”

Foggy had been thinking of him. Foggy thinks he’s adorable. Foggy wants him to have soft things… He can’t process this right now, not without either crying or getting hard, so he pushes it all away to deal with later and says, “I’m not miniature.”

“No, you’re really not,” Foggy says, with something that Matt really hopes is appreciation, “But you’re smaller than a lumberjack.”

“There could be small lumberjacks,” Matt protests, and he can’t keep in the grin when he makes Foggy laugh.

He masturbates later, the shirt clutches awkwardly against his shoulder so he can rub his face on it, and fantasises about Foggy telling him how to dress every day.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes Matt does things to make Foggy hurt him, punish him in the tiny subtle ways even good friends do when they’re angry, just because he knows how much he deserves it.

He tries not to do it often, because making Foggy punish him inevitably means upsetting Foggy, disobeying Foggy, doing something painfully _wrong_ , but there are days when knowing he’s getting what he deserves is the only thing which makes getting out of bed in the morning possible.

That’s what ultimately brings everything to head.

He’d failed the night before, been too slow, had watched a woman die and not been able to stop it, and he feels wrong and broken and unworthy of either of his lives, and he needs to fix it because if he doesn’t he’s terrified of what he’ll do. He doesn’t actually want to die out there on the street, but he’s not actually an idiot, and he’s aware that it’s a real possibility when he’s hurting like this.

He makes himself obnoxious in subtle ways, steals Foggy’s coffee and lets his body language be a little too aggressive, and flirts with Karen, and makes his taunts a whole lot nastier than usual, until he can smell Foggy’s anger, can see/hear/feel the way Foggy keeps clenching his hands like he wants to curl them into fists.

It makes Matt feel sick, and dizzy, and like he wants to cry, and he deserves that and more, so he pushes his way into Foggy’s personal space, just enough to be uncomfortable in their current moods, and says something nasty about Foggy’s weight, and... waits.

He doesn’t get the cutting remark he’s expecting, the punch he’s half hoping for. Instead he gets Foggy’s hand on his chest, broad and firm, pushing him back until he’s pinned against the wall. He gets Foggy saying, very calmly, “Karen, I think you should have the afternoon off. Matt clearly has something he wants to talk about, or he wouldn’t be being such a total dick. But first, he’s going to say sorry for how he’s treated you today. Isn’t that right, Matt?”

“I…” He doesn’t know if he wants to do as he’s told or fight back, caught between the two conflicting urges.

“That wasn’t a question.” Foggy’s voice is a little lower than usual, and a whole lot more commanding, and Matt can feel himself start to tremble and can’t do anything about it. “Say sorry to Karen, right now.”

He turns his head until he knows he’s facing approximately in Karen’s direction, and says, sincere as he knows how to be, “I’m sorry Karen. I’ve been horrible today. I’m havinga bad day and I took it out on you and I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Karen says, soft and worried and a tiny bit disappointed even after all this time, “that’s okay Matt. I forgive you.”

“Good,” Foggy says, and there isn’t a boy on the end of that sentence but there might as well have been for the way it makes Matt’s knees buckle.

“I, er, I’ll just go?” Karen says, nerves turning it into a question. “That’s… I’ll just go.”

Foggy stays silent until she leaves, his hand still on Matt’s chest, holding him pinned. Matt can’t get his hands behind his back like this, and he’s not sure Foggy would want that anyway, so he presses his palms against the wall and promises himself he won’t move them until Foggy gives him permission.

“Okay,” Foggy says, once the door at the top of the stairs has banged closed. “You going to tell me what today’s been about?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He can’t make himself explain, can’t make himself _obey_ and he’s being Bad, he’s being the kind of Bad that even someone as patient as Foggy would know means Matt’s unworthy, and he’s shaking, aware that there are tears pricking in his eyes, aware than he’s being pathetic and unworthy and Bad and totally unable to stop. He can’t… he can’t speak, can’t make a sound and Foggy told him to talk and he _can’t_.

“Okay, well, that’s a somewhat more extreme reaction than I was expecting,” Foggy says, sounding alarmed. “Jesus man, tell me what’s _wrong_?”

More orders, more commands his can’t obey, and if his legs were working right now he’d just throw himself out, it’d be less painful, but he can’t move until Foggy tells him too.

“Ah, Jesus,” Foggy says, sounding distressed, and the Matt finds himself being pulled into a hug, tight and warm and soft and nothing like what he deserves, and he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to move his hands yet so he keeps them where they are, only realising when Foggy pulls away that that must have felt like Matt was trying to _fight_ him, and he’s being so _Bad_.

“Foggy,” Matt manages to choke out when it looks like Foggy’s about to walk away, “Foggy please don’t…” Don’t what? Don’t get rid of me? It’s what he deserves. Don’t replace me? Foggy never wanted to own anyone, isn’t even aware that he does, he’d be happier without a human for a pet, even one would could be good and obedient and not creepy and Bad. “Foggy I’m _sorry_!”

“Oh, hey, Matt, it’s okay, I’m not angry with you! Or, alright I am, but only a little bit, mostly I’m _worried_ about you. And I really need you to tell me what is it you need to be okay, so I can fix you and go back to being angry with you, okay?”

That’s not an order he likes, but it’s one he can obey, now that his tongue is working again, and that’s what matters right now. “I need to get control of my body again. I need to be able to give you what you need. I need to not be Bad.”

“I… okay, I’m pretty sure you didn’t mean that as a weird sex thing, and I’m sorry for immediately thinking of that but… but you’re blushing. Matt, _is_ it a weird sex thing?”

“It’s weird,” Matt says.

“Which means you’re… not sure if it’s a sex thing? Or that it’s only partly a sex thing?”

“It’s an everything thing.” But he can’t lie to Foggy, not right now, not when he’s finally managing to do as he’s told. “Sometimes it’s a sex thing.”

“I, wow, okay. I mean it’s not like I didn’t suspect you were kinky as hell but… You want me to… be your dom?”

Foggy collaring him. Foggy _whipping_ him. Foggy… waiting patiently for an answer. “I’ve belonged to you since we were eighteen. You don’t have to do anything about that.”

“But you want me to?”

He mustn’t lie to Foggy. Lying to Foggy is Bad. “It would be nice if you let me sit at your feet sometimes? I mean, more than you already do. And… would you come clothes shopping with me?”

“You want to go shopping… No. You want me to pick out your clothes for you, right? That’s what the business with the shirt was all about? Even though you never wear it?”

“I sleep in it sometimes. When things… when I need comfort.”

“And how many bloodstains does it have on it?” Foggy asks. He sounds amused, and this is probably one of those things where Matt and Foggy see the same thing totally differently, but Matt still can’t keep himself from rearing back.

“I would never! I’m not _allowed_ to touch it if I’m hurt, that…”

“Would be bad?” Foggy asks, and the capital letter isn’t in place, but he’s still listening and understanding, and Matt relaxes a little.

“Yes,” he agrees.

“Okay, you’re really really messed up Matty, and sometimes being around you kinda makes me want to find the Pope and punch him in the face.”

“It’s not a Catholic thing,” Matt protests, even though he doesn’t know that for certain. “I think it’s just a me thing.”

“And a me thing,” Foggy says, sounding a lot less shocked about that than he had before. “Did you want this stuff before…?”

“Being good is important,” Matt says softly. “But I never belonged to anyone else.” He’d though maybe he did, for a bit, in a strange childish way, but he’d been wrong about that.

“And then you walked into our dorm room, I made the world’s most awkward attempt to hit on you and suddenly, what? You want me to put a collar and leash on you and call you my bitch?”

Sometimes Matt really wishes he could still see, just so he could sometimes look away. “You can call me anything you want, but for the record, I’ve never wanted you to call me your bitch.”

“Just put a collar on you?”

“Not when I don’t deserve it.”

Foggy stares at him for a long time, and Matt wishes he could see his expression. His heart is beating a little faster than normal, but nothing alarming, and his smell is mild and most just worried. It’s not enough information to go on.

“You don’t want any of the stuff healthy BDSM relationships are supposed to have, do you?” Foggy asks eventually. “You don’t want safewords or negotiation or any of the stuff designed to keep people safe?”

Mustn’t lie to Foggy, even when he’d like the lie better than the truth. “I want to… I want you to own me completely, and I know you don’t want that, and I can’t ever have it anyway because of the Devil, but I still want it.”

“Okay, not actually that surprising at this point. Let’s go back to my earlier question. What’s wrong with you today?”

“Beyond all the things that are always wrong with me?” That only earns him a stony silence, so he forces himself to continue. “I messed up last night, I wasn’t fast enough to save someone, and I don’t know how to deal with it, and I needed to be punished, and making you angry with me is the best punishment because nothing else hurts quite like it.”

“Have you considered trying spanking?”

“That would _not_ be a punishment. Especially not from you.”

“Okay, not going to think about that. I… fuck Matt, this is a lot to take in, and I need time to think about this and learn how to be okay with it, but I can’t just leave you like this!”

“I deserve it.”

“Jesus Christ, sorry, but that’s what I mean! I can’t leave you alone right now because if I do you’ll think it’s me punishing you for not being able to save everyone in the world!”

“I don’t want to save the world. Just Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Because that’s so much more reasonable? I… okay, you’re not going to be okay without something… some kind of, of punishment, are you?”

Matt shakes his head.

“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to go home, put on the shirt I bought you and your comfiest sweatpants, make sure the apartment is warm enough for you, and then you’re going to kneel in the corner by the billboard, facing the room, and you’re going to list every person whose life you’ve save, starting with the day you lost your eyesight, okay?”

Matt is trembling again, shaking with the enormity of what’s happening, what Foggy is doing, but he manages a nod.

“Okay, good. You’re going to do this for, oh, about an hour. If you run out of names, although that seems unlikely, you start again from the beginning, okay?”

Matt nods again.

“Right, and by then I’ll have calmed down enough to come over, and you can buy me take-out because that makes you weirdly happy in ways I’m not okay with thinking about right now, and we’ll talk about this properly, like actual grownups. Sound good?”

Matt nods, and when Foggy frowns a little, manages to says, “Yes Foggy,” in a voice that sounds painfully desperate and hopeful.

“Okay. Er… Good boy. I’ll, I’ll see you in an hour, okay? Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first serious attempt at writing these two, so any feedback would be appreciated!


End file.
